Crimson oath

prologue: The Rose Workshop

The scent of flowers hit me the moment I stepped inside the workshop.

Not the soft, romantic kind either. This was a full invasion of my senses—sweet lilies, powdery orchids, sharp dahlias, the faint earthy smell of damp soil. It clung to the air like perfume sprayed a little too enthusiastically. I paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in.

People filled the room already. Buckets of water sat beside long wooden tables, each one crowded with different flowers waiting to be studied, trimmed, replanted. Gardening tools were arranged neatly in rows like surgical instruments.

Clearly this class took plants very seriously. I scanned the room slowly. Lilies, Tulips, Orchids And then— Roses. Deep red ones, The dramatic kind that looked like they belonged in some gothic painting.

Standing beside them was a man. Tall and Lean. White hair that caught the light in a way that made it almost glow against the darker room. He stood with his hands resting lightly on the table, studying the roses with a kind of quiet attention most people reserved for expensive art. And his eyes— Red. Not bright red or unnatural. But dark enough to make you look twice.

He glanced up, Straight at me. For a second we just looked at each other across the room. I realized I had been staring, which meant he had definitely noticed.

Well. Too late to pretend otherwise so I walked over. "You look like you know what you're doing," I said, stopping beside the table. His eyes flicked briefly to the roses, then back to me.

"I, on the other hand," I continued with a small shrug, "am a complete floral disaster." The corner of his mouth lifted. It wasn't a big smile. More like a quiet acknowledgment. "You're not far off," he said. His voice was calm and Low. "I'm Zeke."

"Crystal," I said automatically, offering my hand. He looked at my hand for a moment before shaking it. His grip was Firm. "Crystal," he repeated, like he was testing how the name sounded.

Before the conversation could go further, the instructor clapped loudly at the front of the room. "Alright everyone! Pair up and choose a flower you'd like to work with today." People immediately began gathering around different tables. The instructor walked past us, glanced at the roses, then pointed. "You two can work here."

Just like that, we were partners. I looked down at the roses like they had personally offended me. "Oh this is going to go terribly," I muttered. Zeke chuckled softly.

The instructor began explaining soil mixtures, root trimming, hydration balance, sunlight exposure—words that sounded impressive but made my brain slowly melt into confused mush. Zeke listened carefully, occasionally nodding.

Meanwhile, I stared at the instruction sheet we'd been given like it was written in ancient runes. After a few minutes I sighed dramatically. "How in hell's name do we even start?" He glanced over. "You weren't joking about being a disaster."

"Hey," I protested. "I keep plants alive."

"Do you?"

"Sometimes."

He turned slightly toward the roses, examining the leaves with careful fingers. "Start by analyzing the plant," he said. "Look at the color of the leaves. The firmness of the stems."

I leaned closer to the rose bush, squinting like that would somehow unlock botanical enlightenment. "Well," I said thoughtfully, "the first thing I notice..." He waited.

"...is the drink I'm having after this workshop." That did it. He laughed. Not loudly. Just a quiet, genuine sound that escaped before he could stop it. "Fair observation," he said.

For the next hour he patiently explained things while I mostly tried not to accidentally murder a rose plant. He showed me how to check the roots. How to tell if the soil held too much moisture. How to trim damaged sections without hurting the plant. "You handle them like they're fragile," I observed. "They are," he replied. Then he added quietly, "But they're also stronger than people think."

By the end of the workshop I had learned two things. One: roses are apparently very dramatic plants. Two: Zeke definitely knew what he was doing.

As everyone began packing up their tools, I stretched my arms over my head. "Well," I sighed. "My brain is fried." Zeke leaned back slightly against the table. "You did better than you think."

"I almost killed two of them."

"You didn't."

"Almost counts." For a moment neither of us moved. Then I shrugged. "So... drinks?" The word had barely left my mouth before he nodded.

The bar was warm, crowded, and smelled like alcohol and old wood. Our glasses clinked together lightly. "To surviving roses," I said.

"To learning," Zeke replied. I leaned back in my chair, letting the warmth of the drink settle in. "I swear," I said, shaking my head, "I had no idea I was doing that many things wrong for one plant." Zeke chuckled. "You'll get there."

"Doubtful."

He tilted his head slightly. "If you need advice, text me." He held out his hand. "Give me your phone." Without thinking, I handed it over. Then my brain caught up. "Wait," I frowned. "Why do you need my phone?" He raised an eyebrow. "How else are you going to text me?"

"...Right." I grabbed my drink and chugged it to hide my embarrassment. Smooth, Crys. Very smooth. A moment later someone leaned against my shoulder from behind. I looked up to see one of the band members who worked at the bar.

"Hey," he said. "Our singer's sick tonight. Can you fill in for two songs?" I blinked. "You know I didn't warm up."

"I know," he said desperately. "But please?" I turned toward Zeke. "You cool with that?" He nodded.

I stood up, rolling my shoulders. "Alright," I said with a smirk. "Hope you like rock music." The stage lights warmed my face as I stepped up to the microphone. The band kicked in. And suddenly the entire bar came alive.

Two songs. That was all it took to turn the place into chaos. The crowd sang along, glasses raised, music echoing off the walls. Through all of it—

I kept noticing something. Zeke. He hadn't moved and he hadn't stopped watching. Not once.

After the performance the bartender sent over drinks for us as thanks. Which turned into more drinks. And more. And somewhere between tequila and laughter and music—

The lights went out. And everything after that...

Blurred.

The next thing I remember is waking up with the worst hangover of my life.